Promises
by Kelly
Summary: Immediately post The Gift, Spike grieves over the promise he failed to keep.


**Promises**

Second in a trio of stories I wrote the summer between seasons 5 & 6 of _Buffy_. Irrelevant in light of seasons 6 & 7, but I was cleaning virtual house and wanted to post anyway.

**Disclaimer:** Spike's not mine. Wish he were, but my husband might object. Buffy, Dawn, Willow, the Scoobies, none of them are mine. They all belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

This takes place immediately after the _Buffy_ Season Five finale, "The Gift." Spoilers for pretty much everything up until that point. Spike tries to cope with his loss.

* * *

Sunlight. It trickled in through the small, high window, filtered by the trees outside, only managing to illuminate the cheerless crypt in a hazy glow. Normally, this was a good thing; sunlight was the enemy. Today, however, it beckoned him and he longed to go out in it, to bask in its cleansing fire, to let it consume him, burn him to ashes. 

Today was her funeral.

With an effort, Spike turned his gaze from the window. He snuffed out a cigarette stub on the stone slab beside him and automatically reached for a fresh one. He lit it, drew in the smoke, and held it in, forcing it into lungs that needed no air, willing the nicotine to course through veins that pumped no blood. Of course it didn't, it had no affect at all.

Inevitably, the window drew him back. Sunlight. It was odd, really. Sunlight had never meant much to him before. It was an inconvenience, something that kept him from moving about freely, but nothing more than that. Other than avoiding it to save his own skin, he had never given it much thought. A year and a half ago he'd even walked in the sunlight briefly, when he'd had the Gem of Amara. But even then it had not been a profound moment beyond being a means to an end. He could hunt, kill, and feed twenty-four hours a day instead of twelve, but other than that the sun held no allure. Yet now it summoned him, seducing him with the promise of nothingness. No love, no grief, no guilt, no pain. Just freedom.

He'd almost heeded its call that horrible morning when she died. He had been trying to shake off the dizziness from his long fall and the hard impact on the cement and bricks. He had finally worked his way to his feet when he saw her in the pale light of daybreak, her body lifeless, stretched out across a pile of bricks. Even from a distance he knew she was dead, her body drained of blood. All too familiar a sight, but oh God no, not her! He staggered forward, not even noticing the patch of sunlight until he'd stepped into it and the pain brought him to his knees. But that pain was nothing to the other pain, the grief that tore through him. He retreated out of the sunlight, but just barely, and looked up, willing her to rise, to prove his senses wrong, to prove she wasn't dead, couldn't be dead, couldn't be gone. But she was and he had crumbled, sobbing into his hands, unaware of anything but the emptiness and pain and grief, not caring that the sun was rising, that it would consume him. He wanted it to consume him.

It was Willow who had brought him out it, urging him further into the shadows. "Spike, the sun is rising, you have to get inside, c'mon," she'd said softly, with more compassion than he deserved. He'd tried to kill her before, tried to kill all of them at some point, and now Buffy was dead and it was his fault, completely his fault so why in the bloody hell was Willow being so sodding kind?

He'd wanted to tell her to sod off, but only managed to choke out "I don't care, let it rise, I don't care."

But Willow would have none of it. "You can't do this to Dawn, Spike. She lost her mother, her sister, you can't make her mourn anyone else. It's too much!"

Dawn. That's what did it, what brought him to his senses, got him to his feet and into the safety of the shadows. It's what kept him from going outside now, from resisting the call of the sun and the blissful release it promised. He had vowed to protect Dawn, "to the end of the world." He had failed that night, utterly completely failed in every possible sense of the word, but she

was alive and Buffy was dead and he would keep his vow, whatever the cost. Ironic that the person who kept him alive, gave him a reason to keep living was also the one person he absolutely couldn't face. He had been unable to look at her that morning, unable to look into eyes that would most surely be filled with accusation, and even now couldn't bring himself to do more than watch her from afar to make sure she was safe, that Giles and Willow and the others were caring for her. He'd failed her, failed her sister, failed them all the only time it had every really mattered in his life that he succeed. His history was full of defeats, but always it had been Scarlett O'Hara defeat, the kind where you lived to fight another day. Various plots and schemes had failed, but there was always the next plot, the next scheme. He'd failed to win back Dru, but there was always the next time. He'd failed to kill the Slayer despite his many tries—and now that his only desire was to save her, _now_ he manages to get her killed! Laughter bubbled up inside of him, a sick, mad giggle at the irony.

"Congratulations, Mate, you've killed Slayer Number Three," he told himself acerbically. "William the Sodding Bloody."

The insane giddiness turned sour in his throat and he choked back a sob. Closing his eyes, he refused to give into the grief. He pushed it down, hardened it until it turned into something he understood: rage. Doc, _he_ was to blame for this, and he would pay. Spike would find him, maybe even get Xander in on it—he was actually beginning to almost like that poofter, and he'd certainly have the same ax to grind. They'd research in those endless books Giles kept, find out exactly what sort of demon Doc was, and find the slowest, most excruciatingly painful way to kill it, then find him and make him pay. THEN he would laugh, oh yes, he'd have a right good laugh then. He kept his eyes closed, a faint, hard smile crossing his lips as he imagined inflicting pain, draining life, Doc's eyes full of fear. But against his will, Doc's features morphed into Dawn's and it was her eyes that were full of fear, as they locked with Spike's and they both understood what his failure meant—

Spikes eyes flew open as he pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead, that image bringing more pain than even the chip had ever mustered. That look he'd shared with Dawn, that final connection between them, that moment was almost more painful than the moment he saw Buffy's body and knew she was dead. He tried to refocus on Doc, on his rage, but Dawn's face persisted, swimming before him, reminding him that in one moment he was irrevocably changed. Buffy's death had almost been an afterthought to that moment, his due reward for failing them both.

And the night had begun with such promise, too. He had _belonged_, in a way he hadn't belonged since Dru, in a way he never even managed to achieve with Angelus and Darla, even back in the heady days after killing his first Slayer. He was part of the "band of brothers," or "band of buggered" as he'd quipped with Giles hours before. And Buffy—she had _invited_ him back into her house! Even in his current shame he couldn't help but feel the awe, the tremendous _privilege_ of being allowed over the threshold. He had been forgiven and never in either his life as a human or his unlife as a vampire had he known such gratitude. It had compelled him to speak, to tell her how much it meant to him, even though he knew she didn't love him, that she never would. At least that was one thing he had done right that night, the one thing he could be at peace with. He had told her how much she meant to him, even without returning his love, and he at least could be grateful that he'd done that well.

Later he was doing what he loved best, fighting for his life. They hadn't gotten very far, but that didn't matter as long as they kept that skanky bitch of a hell god from getting anywhere either. And even when he saw that someone had reached Dawn after all, he _knew_ it

would be all right. Willow had chosen _him_ to hear her voice, sent _him_ up to save Dawn. He went and the minions were suddenly gone as if a hand had come down from the heavens and wiped them aside. He flew up the stairs, wind ripping at his leather duster, and even now he could remember how _good_ he'd felt, how right it was that _he_ would get to be the hero.

At this, another deranged laugh escaped him and he saw another scene from another time: himself on a rooftop watching the street below as Angel rescued a women from some thugs. "You see, ma'am," Spike had mocked then, "I was once a bad-ass vampire. But love –and a pesky curse –defanged me, and now I'm just a big fluffy puppy with bad teeth." He snorted at the memory. Change "curse" to "chip"…

But like the last, this laugh died quickly. He was _not_ a hero. He lost the most important battle of his life. Doc. Why had Doc able to get the upper hand so quickly? Why was Spike so ineffectual against this demon? He had been so cocky, so sure that at the very least he could hold Doc off long enough for the window to close, for the Key to be useless and for Dawn to be safe. "I don't smell a soul anywhere on you," Doc had said. "Why do you even care?"

"I made a promise to a lady."

And then it was over. That buggered demon tongue, and moves too fast for Spike to see, let alone match, then Doc had him. "Then I'll send the lady your regrets."

It was then that Spike's eyes met Dawn's and in that moment he knew. It wasn't about Buffy or his vow to her, though he'd keep it no matter the cost. It was _Dawn_. As his eyes locked with her, he knew with a clarity he'd never felt before that he loved her. Not like he loved Buffy, obviously, and that's what terrified him. Romantic love was something he had known as a human and sex was something he understood as a vampire. Loving Buffy was twisted and wrong in every sense of the word, but it was _right_, too. It was no different than loving Dru had been, really. Love and longing and lust all mixing together into something heady and powerful. But this, this love for Dawn, it didn't make sense to him. Not at the time and not reflecting on it now. How was it possible to love without lust, to care without desire? And how could he bear that love knowing, at the exact same instant, that he had so completely and devastatingly failed her?

"No—" he'd choked out then just before Doc had thrown him over, and he choked it out again now, burying his face his hands, not even aware of the cigarette still dangling from his fingers. "No."

The fall had seemed to take an eternity and all the way down he wished fervently that he might be lucky enough to land just so on a broken piece of wood, impaling him through the heart so he wouldn't have to endlessly relive the failure. But the powers that be weren't even going to allow him that small kindness and he landed on bricks and asphalt. Painful, but not deadly. But hey, at least there was the end of the world to look forward to.

And then it came, in all its epic wrath-of-God power, and he knew it was over and he was glad. He'd failed but at least he wouldn't have to live with it.

Except… except there was something he knew, something that nagged at him, told him that it wasn't over and that he'd failed in more ways than he thought possible. And when it stopped, when the lights stopped flashing and the earth stopped splitting and the wind stopped howling, he knew that Buffy would never have let Dawn die. He knew what had happened. Exactly what he had told Buffy would happen.

"Every Slayer has a death wish. Sooner or later, you're gonna want it. And the second—_the second_—that happens… you know I'll be there."

Except he wasn't there. He had promised—PROMISED he'd be there and he wasn't.

"And now your failure is complete," he said aloud in a bad Darth Vader imitation that threatened to bring another burst of mad laughter, but instead he began to weep and this time not even rage could stop the

tears. He could hate Doc all he want, he could daydream of his torture and his death, but that couldn't change the fact that Spike was the one to blame. It was his fault, all of it.

He sobbed until his hands dropped into his lap and his cigarette, forgotten in his grief, burned his leg. "OW!" he screamed, dropping the offending cigarette onto the cement floor below and stepping down to grind it out viciously with his boot heel.

He then turned his gaze once more to the window where the sunlight still tried its best to filter through the trees outside. Slowly he turned and walked to the window. Was the graveside service still going on? Who had come?

Willow had apologized to him for holding it in the daytime. "It'd be kind of creepy and weird to do it at night," she'd stammered, but the truth was he didn't want to be there anyway. All those grieving people, hugging each other, seeking comfort in each other. That wasn't Spike. He'd rather bear his grief and his guilt alone. Besides, it gave him some small satisfaction knowing that the sunlight would prevent Angel from being there as well. Petty, that, but there it was. Just because he didn't want to find solace in the arms of her friends didn't mean he was anxious for Angel to have it. And hey, by now Angel surely must've heard the whole story. Either he was having a good laugh about Spike going all lovesick over the Slayer or he was so pissed off he'd show up with a stake. Spike shook his head. No, the laugh was more likely. He couldn't be so lucky as to get staked by Angel. Way too easy.

Then he heard the door open behind him. For a moment he thought it was Angel after all and he was almost relieved, but then he realized in the daylight Angel would have come through underground, and besides, his intruder smelled human. Willow then, most likely.

"Sod off," he growled, without turning, "I'm in no mood for company."

"Spike," a quiet voice answered, and he stiffened. Not Willow, but Dawn.

"Go away, Little Bit," he said, softening his voice a little but still not turning toward her. "You should be at the funeral."

"It just ended," she said quietly. "I told Willow and Mr. Giles I wanted to be alone."

"Then go be alone," he said, a little more harshly than he felt. He just couldn't stand to be in the room with her, and he sure as hell wasn't going to turn around and look at her and see those eyes accuse him of failing her.

"Spike, please," she said even more softly, choking down a sob. "Please talk to me. Can't you—can't you forgive me?"

At this Spike whirled around, shocked. "Forgive _you_? What in the bloody hell are you on about?"

She was standing in the door, looking frail and small in her black skirt and gray blouse. Her hair was pulled back and she looked older, almost like her sister. She had been looking at him when he turned, and then her eyes immediately looked down to the floor, as if _she_ couldn't bear to face _him_.

"I know it's my fault," she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "It should've been me. I should've done it, not her. I'm so sorry, Spike, I didn't want her to die, I really didn't. I was so scared and… please," she moaned, burying her face in her hands. "Please don't hate me."

Spike stared at her, gaping. For a moment he stood rooted in place, uncomprehending how she could possibly blame _herself_. Then in a few quick strides he was standing over her. Carefully finding her chin through her hands he tilted her face up to his. She let her hands fall away and looked at him, shame burning in her eyes.

"Listen to me. This is _not_ your fault, do you understand? You are _not_ to blame. It's Doc and Ben and Glory… and _me_, Dawn. This is _my_ fault."

Her expression turned from shame to confusion and she shook her head, breaking free of his grasp. "No, Spike, you came for me, you—"

"I failed you," he said, and now he looked down at the floor. "I couldn't even stop him long enough to stop

the ritual—"

"No!" she shouted. "No! He stabbed you and you still protected me. You went over the edge for _me_. And I paid you back by letting Buffy kill herself for me. I know how much you loved her. You must hate me for letting her do it."

He closed his eyes, letting the pain go through him. "She's the Slayer. It's what she does," he said simply.

"Then why have you been avoiding me?"

His eyes flew open and he looked at her. She looked so lost, so _alone_. And she thought he'd been avoiding her because he blamed _her_? He tilted his head, almost overcome again in shame and grief. "How could I face you knowing what I'd done? I promised to protect you, and I failed. I promised to be there for her, and I failed. I… Dawn, I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry."

And now it was his turn to bury his face in his hands and though he'd vowed not to cry again in front of any of them, not to let them see him weak, he couldn't stop it. His body wracked with sobs and he collapsed to his knees as he mourned Buffy, mourned his failure, even mourned the loss of himself, the loss of the vampire who was beyond caring about mere humans. The pain was so overwhelming he couldn't even pull away when he felt Dawn kneel down beside him and wrap her slender arms around him. He could feel her hot tears on his neck and her body shook as she cried with him. They sat that way a long time until eventually the tears dried up and Spike pulled away, rocking backwards off his knees until he was sitting on the ground with enough distance between them for him to feel more at ease.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, deeply embarrassed as he wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. "A fine vampire I am."

Dawn smiled, wiping her own eyes. "I don't know, I think you're a cool vampire. Not that I've _known_ a lot of vampires, except for, you know, the ones that have tried to kill me. And Angel," she added. "But you're way cooler than Angel."

Spike smirked and nodded curtly. "Well, that goes without saying."

"So then," she started hesitantly, "so then we're okay? You don't hate me?"

Spike shook his head. "No, Niblet, I don't hate you. We're—" he stopped, struggling for the word.

"Friends?" Dawn supplied helpfully.

He smiled. "Yeah, we're friends." Friends. The word felt foreign on his tongue. Even when he was human he never really had anyone who considered him a friend, and vampires had gangs, not really friends. He looked up, nodding his chin toward the door. "But if you don't get back there, the Scoobies are gonna come looking for me with stakes." He got up and brushed himself off, then reached out his hand to help her up.

She looked at the hand a moment, then took it gingerly and let him pull her up. Turning, she reached for the door. "Yeah, right," she said. "Okay then. I… I'm glad we talked. Hey Spike?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you come by the house later? To the wake? I… I'd really like you to come. You belong there, with us."

"I don't know, big crowds, people all weepy, not my idea of a good time. Besides, not everyone might appreciate my presence," he said warily, thinking again of Angel, who would almost certainly be there, especially since it would be after dark.

Dawn's face fell. "Okay, that's cool, whatever."

He sighed, resigned. "But I'll think about it." Her face brightened again. "But no promises, okay? And if I don't come it has nothing to do with you. You and I are okay, got it?"

"Got it," she nodded, smiling. "Okay then, I'll see you. Later. Or whenever." She then left, and quiet settled over the crypt once more.

Spike watched the door a moment, then turned back to his gaze at the window. The sunlight was even weaker than before; it would be dark soon. His stomach growled, a reflex left over from when nightfall meant feeding. Absently he walked over to his small refrigerator and pulled out some pig's blood, bought from the same butcher who had supplied Angel when he had lived in Sunnydale.

"And the ironies just keep on coming," he told himself wryly as he warmed up the blood and watched the gathering gloom. Soon he would be able to venture out safely. He could visit Buffy's grave alone, without having to endure the grief of others. And Joyce, too, he could visit Joyce. Buffy's grave would be swimming in fresh flowers from the funeral, but maybe he could swipe some from another grave to leave for Joyce. Then he might even try and make it over to Buffy's— to Dawn's, he amended. It might be worth it just to make Angel feel all awkward and pouty, the big broody poofter.

The last of the light dissolved into night and he'd made it through another day without Buffy. As he would tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. He would not give into the sun, would not allow it to take him, because he promised. To the end of the world. And he would _not_ fail her again. Not ever.


End file.
